


The Further Adventures of Vin Tanner, Best Damn Whore In The West

by Todesengel



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, M/M, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 01:36:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesengel/pseuds/Todesengel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezra is very good at getting what he pays for. </p><p>Trigger warnings for consent issues, bondage, and an incredibly dom!Ezra.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Further Adventures of Vin Tanner, Best Damn Whore In The West

Ezra took a sip of his whiskey and smiled. There really was nothing quite like a good game – especially one that was so clearly well in hand. He'd dealt the fat man in the slightly shabby suit (clearly not quite so rich as he'd like people to believe, nor as good a cheat as he liked to think) a nice little run of diamonds and a pair of worthless clubs – not a strong hand, by any means, but enough to convince a bad gambler who relied far too heavily on hope that there was the chance of a flush in there; definitely enough to draw out most of the man's remaining stash with this hand. He might even be thinking he could pull off a straight flush if he could slip the Jack and Queen of diamonds he had hidden up his sleeve into his hand and pick up his missing nine on the discard. Too bad for him Ezra'd given those cards to the sheriff to form a sweet little two pair; it never paid to fleece the law (Ft. Laramie taught him that lesson in a manner he'd rather not repeat) and Ezra was quite confident he'd send the lawman home only a few dollars lighter than he'd started out with – and thinking he'd come out ahead, too. And even if the sheriff folded (unlikely, in Ezra's opinion, for all that the man played conservatively) Ezra knew he'd be able to turn his modest little three of a kind into a royal flush with no-one the wiser.

As for the ranch hand (a foreman, certainly; work clothes, but clean and new), well, Ezra'd given him a pair and the hope of an ace-high full house, or possible a low two pair. Enough to keep the betting going from that corner at any rate, and Ezra judged he could get at least three more hands out of the man before he decided to call things quits. And the greenhorn in the greasy third-hand suit held nothing but junk; the kid was too young, too poor, and too stupid to have ever sat down at this table and the sooner Ezra could convince him to leave the better. 

Yes, a good game, well in hand, with an outcome that was uncertain only with respect to just how rich Ezra'd be at the end of the night. And, true, a poker game so easily controlled was not the most thrilling game in the world, but in a town as rich as this one appeared to be (two well kept churches, half the town riding fine horses and the other half in fancy carriages, hell he'd even seen a proper tailor and milliner's shop on his ride in) that could boast a saloon as fancy as this one – big glass mirror, free of cracks and waves, a whiskey made from a recognizable mash (no disgusting brew of burnt sugar and tobacco here!), and green baize on the tables – winning was better than thrilling by far. Especially since winning meant he could milk this table for at least three more nights – possibly a week if he let the locals win back some of their cash. And after Big Wells, it'd be nice to spend some time in a place where a squat, one-story hotel of rough-hewn logs wasn't considered the height of sophistication; especially one that understood that there was more to cooking than beans, bacon, and biscuits. 

Ezra took another sip of his whiskey and leaned back in his chair, his eyes automatically scanning the rest of the saloon, looking for marks both old and new – it was baffling the way some folks could hold a grudge – and his attention snagged on a pair of men standing at the corner of the bar. At first he thought it was because he recognized the older man as a trapper from Wellspring who'd been a particularly sore loser. But no, that wasn't it. For all that most mountain men looked alike to him, a second glance confirmed that the man at the bar wasn't someone he'd fleeced before. And yet there was something familiar about the pair of men, some odd sense of recognition that made his nerves tingle with the familiar hum of imminent danger – not a danger to himself, perhaps, but danger to be wary of at the very least. He'd hate for his game to be broken up because of a brawl; or worse, perhaps, if the uneasy sense of tension currently making the hair on the back of his neck rise was a signal of some darker deed. Either way, it was enough of a warning for Ezra to take a closer look at the pair under the guise of signaling one of the various working girls for another drink. 

They were much of a pair, the two men, at least in their outward form. Both clearly men who'd come in from the wilderness – trappers or buffalo hunters or some such thing, clad in their brown-gray hide coats, with faded shirts and worn pants underneath. At first Ezra thought the two were friends, perhaps partners celebrating a decent sale. But the more he looked, the more he realized that they were strangers to each other, despite the way the younger man smiled at the older one's jests. Forced smiles, though, and forced friendliness, and that – and the way the younger man was forcing himself to fade into the foreground, as though seeking attention went against his better sense; and the hundred of other little signs too small for Ezra to adequately name – made him realize that there was another game in hand here, one that he'd played himself from time to time; though never from the younger man's side.

 _Well, well,_ he thought, smiling again. _Haven't seen that in a while. Though I reckon he could've picked a better town to ply his trade._

"Well that does it for me, boys," the fat man said, drawing Ezra's attention back to the table and his game. The fat man shook his head and put on a slightly threadbare top hat. "Bill, you come to my office tomorrow and we'll sort out that Franks business."

"'Night your honor," the sheriff said, and Ezra would have started at those words, if he'd still been such an amateur as to show his shock in such an obvious way. Only two kinds of people got called "your honor" out here, and Ezra doubted the fat man was a judge. 

_Well, darling boy,_ he heard his mother say as he dealt out the next hand – dealt unthinking and with no stacking at all, so deep was his consternation at his folly. _You've just fleeced the mayor of this prospering little hamlet. And a mayor who gambles more than he can afford and badly cheats at cards. Whatever shall you do now?_

A rhetorical question, of course. There was only one thing he could do, and that was to see this game through and leave town as soon as decency would allow. While he had no doubt that the sheriff was a decent man – he had the same, slightly dour look as some of the more austere bible-thumper's he'd met back East – he also knew that decent men were easy to circumvent; why, he made his living off the cupidity of decent men. And besides, even if the mayor didn't have some sort of leverage on this sheriff sufficient enough to create some kind of trumped up charge against Ezra, he'd be bound to have enough leverage in town to raise an angry mob. Two well used churches in a town this size meant a lot of god-fearing folk; and while Ezra generally found that the god-fearing were good for his trade – for after all, the sinless had no reason to fear god – he'd also found that the god-fearing were sometimes altogether too eager to run an honest con-man out of town. 

He ended the game three hands later, leaving the ranch hand with more money than Ezra'd intended he walk away with, the greenhorn still ignorant of the dangers of sitting down at table with stakes he couldn't afford, and the sheriff up a half-dollar from the start of the evening. Not quite the takings he'd imagined when he sat down, but better half the pot than no pot and a night in jail. There was enough in his pocket to see him reprovisioned and safely on to the next town before any sort of decent mob could be stirred up. In fact, now that the first shock of discovery was over, Ezra reckoned he could run this table one more night. The fat mayor seemed accustomed to losing, and if he played his cards right…yes, one more night for sure, and then he'd have a comfortable amount of cash at hand and two nights in a fine hotel, and more than just a taste of some decent whiskey. Maybe even some company too, for it'd been a long time since Ezra'd seen a back alley boy plying his trade, and though he considered himself the master of his passions, there was such a thing as being too chaste. 

But the two men at the bar were no longer there. 

Ezra gave a mental shrug and moved on. There was always tomorrow night, if the boy was still in town. 

It was while he was standing outside the saloon, ostensibly dusting his clothes off but really letting his eyes adjust to the dimness of the night fires, that Ezra heard the noise. It was a familiar one, the sound of flesh hitting flesh in violence, the grunting of a fight, the aborted wheeze of what might have been a scream. Ezra looked around, searching for the source. The alley seemed the most likely place, and he reached the dark mouth in three quick steps. Even with the shadows cloaking the actions within, it was all too clear to Ezra what was going on. The older man had the younger down on his knees, one burly hand encircling the young man's throat while the other fumbled at the front of his pants. Clearly whatever the bigger man desired was outside of whatever bargain the two had made, for the young man was fighting back against the restraining hand – and fighting with an admirable tenacity too.

For a moment, Ezra hesitated. A fight of any sort was none of his concern, particularly a fight between a back alley boy and his john. And yet…

And yet, perhaps it was sympathy for the young man that made him move, or a desire to keep the town quiet for the next few days – no sense in giving that sheriff any ideas that might lead him into questioning all the town's new arrivals – or maybe it was simply a need to release both the tension and the disappointment that this night had brought. As much as he abhorred unnecessary violence, there were times, Ezra had to admit, when violence was most heartily to be indulged. 

But it turned out his passing spasm of conscience had been unnecessary, for even as he watched the younger man freed himself of his captor's hand and rose up like an angry badger. It was a short fight – and a brutal one from the sound of it – though Ezra could see little more than a dark blur of motion. It was over almost as soon as it had begun, the big man lying still on the ground, and the young man shooting a quick glance towards Ezra while shaking out his hand. 

"Iffin yer his friend, don't worry," the young man said as he bent down to rifle through the bigger man's pockets. "He ain't dead and I'm just takin' what's owed." The young man peeled off two dollars from a wad of bills and shoved the rest back into the big man's pockets. 

"Two dollars?" Ezra said, unsure if he was more shocked by the paltry amount or the fact that this back alley boy wasn't taking his john for everything he was worth. 

"It's what we agreed on," the young man said. He stood up and walked forward, a strong look of defiance on both his face and in the set of his shoulders. He was a handsome man, even with a slowly darkening bruise on his cheek and a split lip, with the stubble roughening the sharp edges of his face, and a wary savageness to his eyes. He carried himself with pride – more pride than Ezra'd expect in a man plying this particular trade – and with liquid sleekness that promised hard lean muscles beneath his rather shabby attire. 

"Anyway," he said, and there was something almost defensive about his tone, "I wouldn't've done it if my goddamn horse hadn't thrown a shoe. Two dollars was all he was willin' to pay, and there ain't many folks out there who'll pay more'n that." He paused and eyed Ezra up and down, and the shift in his body language from fight to flirt was shocking despite it's subtlety. "'Course, if you're willin'…"

Ezra licked his lips – a nervous tick that he still couldn't quite conquer – and took a deep breath before answering. He was aroused, of course – hard not to be after so long and presented with such a man – but he'd at least mastered this quirk of the body. He would not let himself be led around by his prick. And yet it had been so very, very long. And there was something about this man that made his nerves sing in more than just their usual song of lust. 

"All right," he said at last. "But not here."

"'Course not," the young man said, and he flashed a grin that was startling white in the darkness. "Fancy man like you's bound to be staying at one of them hotels."

"Indeed." Ezra smiled back and inclined his head toward the main street and his accommodations. "Now, what will two dollars buy me?"

"Oh I reckon you'll pay more'n two dollars," the young man said, falling easily into step with Ezra. "'Specially since the only thing two dollars'll get you is a bit of jerk. Fancier stuff'll cost you more."

"I see." Ezra led the way up the back steps of his hotel and ushered the young man into his room. He took off his hat and jacket, and the coins in his pocket jangled together in a pleasant – if somewhat muted – manner as he did so. He'd made a little over twenty dollars tonight, between paper and coin, and he could make as much again tomorrow; he could afford to be generous in treating himself here. "What can I get for twelve dollars, then?"

"Dunno," the young man said. "Ain't never been offered that much." He fiddled with the buckle of his gun belt while Ezra moved past him to light the lamp by the bed, then shrugged. "I knows them parlor girls offer all kinds of fancy things, but I ain't much for conversation and readin' and the like. I reckon…" The young man took a deep breath and looked up, square into Ezra's eyes. "Well, I reckon you could probably do most anythin' you liked for twelve dollars." 

"Even a fuck?" Ezra asked, more curious than because he actually desired the act. 

"A fuck…" The young man chewed on the inside of his lip. "A fuck'll be fifteen."

"Then fifteen it is," Ezra said, "and I can do as I please."

The young man nodded, then added, "Anythin' you want 'cept pain. I ain't looking to get beat on, here. Least no more than I've been already." 

"Trust me," Ezra said, undoing his cravat, "that is the last thing on my mind." He laid the bit of silk on the edge of the bed and looked over at the young man. "And now that we've dealt with the monetary aspect of the thing, perhaps you'll be so good as to tell me your name?"

The young man looked surprised at this and Ezra _tut_ -ed. "I like to know the name of the man handling my private affairs," he said, and the young man laughed at that. 

"You c'n call me Vin," he said, and he cocked his head slightly to one side and raised a questioning eyebrow. 

"Ezra," Ezra said, and he began to unbutton his waistcoat. "Now, Vin. Strip."

"What?"

"Strip," Ezra said, with a bit more force. "I have bought you for the night, and you will do as I say."

"Ain't said nothin' bout the night," Vin said, but there was a hesitancy to his tone. 

"You said I could have anything except pain. I assumed that your company for the entire evening was a given." Ezra smiled at Vin, but with less warmth than before. "You do, of course, always have the option of leaving."

He could see Vin's hesitation, could practically read the thoughts that crossed Vin's mind. Fifteen dollars was a lot of money to a man with a pressing need, and they had agreed there was to be no pain. A fuck and a night in a warm bed was quite the temptation, Ezra knew, especially to a man reduced to offering a two-dollar fondle in a dank alley behind a saloon. 

The moment of Vin's concession sent a thrill through Ezra's body that was so strong it made his knees feel slightly weak. 

"No pain," Vin said again, and he began to disrobe, but slowly, each article removed with a hesitant embarrassment that was, in its own agonizing way, as erotic as any calculated tease Ezra had ever seen. 

"And I can do anything," Ezra replied. He licked his lips again – damn that nervous tick – and walked to the bureau and the two thick glasses he'd left there. He poured himself a generous two fingers of Scotch from his flask and took a sip before turning and surveying exactly what his money had bought. 

Vin seemed almost painfully shy of his nakedness, despite the way he threw back his head and gave Ezra a challenging stare. No amount of bravado could disguise his body's unconscious urge to cover itself and the way his arms twitched in an aborted effort to come forward and hide his dick. It was a strange contrast to his earlier pride, and another odd dissonance with what Ezra knew of back alley boys. Illicit – and illegal – as their little tryst might be, he'd still never met a man so shy about the goods he was selling. Most back alley boys were bold with their bodies – though most were both younger and far more effete then Vin. And perhaps that was the reason for his shyness, his hesitancy. Perhaps he feared Ezra would lose interest when he saw Vin possessed the body of a man; though how he could have ever imagined that Ezra would have thought otherwise for even a second after seeing him fight, Ezra didn't know. Besides, as far as Ezra could see, there was no reason for Vin's shyness. His body was no work of art, marred as it was by scars and a strange, swirling tattoo in startling shades of yellow and red, but it was perfectly suited to a man selling his body out West. Not the waifish, narrow lines of a French lad – or a lad purporting to be French, at any rate – in a New Orleans brothel, but the hard edges of man raised up in an unyielding land. He was all long, lean muscle, firm with the freshness of youth – a pleasing picture of Western maleness. Ezra took his time in looking, in taking in the whole of Vin's body, the shocking paleness of it – such a contrast to the gold-brown hue of his hands and face – the jagged scars, the way his strange tattoo swept in a fiery whorl of geometric progression across his chest, the patch of dark-gold hair that covered his flaccid cock. 

Scarred and proud, and Ezra had a sudden urge to touch, to taste, to delve into the man before him with all his senses. 

He undressed instead, as slow as Vin had, but with greater deliberation, turning his back on Vin as he did so. Each piece of clothing hung in its proper place, each ring and cufflink stowed in his small rosewood box. Behind him he heard the floor creak and settle and creak again. Vin getting antsy, no doubt, and unsure, stewing in whatever thoughts were in his head, in whatever hidden secrets he kept that made him shy about his naked form. At the noise Ezra slowed down in his undressing, taking even more time, being even fussier about his clothes. He wanted Vin to stew, wanted that uncertainty to rise, to perhaps bring with it a flush of shame or confusion or a straightening of the spine as Vin's cocky, covering bravado soared to even greater heights. The reaction didn't matter; all that mattered was the control. 

When he was at last stripped bare, he turned around, unabashed and unashamed of the way his cock jutted out from his body. He finished off the last of his Scotch and watched Vin take him in. He knew what he looked like, of course; he was no stranger to a mirror, and had, on occasion, taken himself in hand and watched his body move in a primal rhythm, utterly subsumed by urges too ancient to control. Still, he wondered what he looked like to Vin's eyes. Did he appear soft, despite the firmness of his body? Was his lack of scars a mark against him? Would Vin think him easy because of the neatness of his form? 

What Vin thought didn't matter, of course, at least in theory. But in principal, Ezra preferred it if his partners found him physically attractive – it made the whole thing slightly less sordid in his mind. He watched Vin's eyes, his body, glanced down to Vin's cock – hidden now, by a pair of modest hands. Was that arousal widening the pupils of Vin's eyes, or was their sudden blackness from some different cause? 

Only one way to find out, of course. He put down the glass with enough force that it made a dull _clink_ as it hit the bureau's top, and gestured peremptorily at Vin's groin his free hand. "Hands at your sides."

Vin shivered, as though suppressing some different action, but moved his hands. His cock was no longer quite so flaccid as it had been, though not nearly as engorged as Ezra's own. Ezra looked up and found Vin looking away, a dull flush on his chest and cheeks. 

"Ain't…ain't never done this naked," he said, and laughed a little uneasily. 

"Ever been fucked?" Ezra asked, not truly astonished at Vin's confession. Most of the boys he'd met who formed the brotherhood of Vin's trade were little better than streetwalkers or crib girls – sad things, for the most part, both the men and the women, and creatures to be avoided at all cost for any man who valued not dying of the pox or the clap or the cure for both.

Vin straightened himself up and opened his mouth, clearly on the verge of lying, then shook his head, deflating a little as he did so. 

"Very well," Ezra said. "Get on the bed."

Vin did as commanded, moving awkwardly and with none of his earlier predatory grace. Again that sudden rush, that intoxicating pleasure, and this time Ezra recognized it for what it was, for he'd felt just the same giddy, heady warmth when a con was running smooth and he had only to pull one string to make a man dance before him. It was power, of course, power over another man, and he understood, now, why the South had gone to war. 

Ezra took in a deep breath, relishing just the sensations within, and walked to the bed. He looked down at Vin, who lay upon the mattress as stiff as a corpse, eyes shut tight and fists clenched. He looked even younger like this, more like the back alley boys Ezra was used to seeing, and not at all like the confident man of the West he'd been just a moment before. The sight only deepened Ezra's arousal, and for a moment he could only look, too afraid that touching might bring him too close to the edge. But, in the end, he _had_ to touch, had to feel those muscles, those scars. 

He brought one hand down and skimmed it lightly across Vin's chest, noting the way the muscles tensed, then released in the wake of his passage. He noted, too, the way Vin's arms trembled, as though he were fighting the urge to knock Ezra's intrusive hand away. 

_Well_ , Ezra thought, _we can't be having with that._

"Arms up," he said as he looked about the room for something suitable to use as a tie. His gun belt might work, but he was so loath to ruin the leather by tying it in knots. The cravat might work as well, silk being a strong material, but there was always the chance that it might become stained. No, his braces would be best – or even better, Vin's, as they were both longer and made of thick canvas, sure to hold against even the most wild jerking. He scooped them up from the floor and had one strap wrapped around Vin's wrists before the younger man had time to react. 

"No!" Vin said, a sharp command, and he pulled hard against the restraint – too late, though, for Ezra had the rest of the braces firmly tied to two of the solid brass railings that made up the headboard of the bed, and all Vin could do was flop about like a fish trapped on a line. Not that this stopped Vin from trying, and Ezra had to bite down hard on his lips to distract himself from coming in pleasure at watching Vin's struggles. He waited until Vin's first wild frenzy passed and he lay still once more upon the bed, eyes open now and breathing hard. 

"No pain," Ezra said calmly, "and I can do anything I want." He sat down gingerly by Vin's head – just because he had the man's arms restrained didn't mean he was safe from retaliation. He put one hand upon the braces and raised an eyebrow in a way that he knew gave his face a mocking air. "Still, say the word, and I'll free you now and you can leave."

Again he watched the silent struggle going on behind Vin's eyes. This was surely more than he'd thought he'd be selling, when he'd given his blanket consent. And even if, right now, he no longer threw his head back, high and proud as a wild stallion, Ezra knew that same pride still lurked within him. But pride wouldn't shoe a horse, and besides, Ezra could see Vin's cock swelling even stiffer with arousal. 

"All right," Vin said at last, casting his eyes downwards and away. "Whatever you want."

Ezra smiled to himself. It was always so nice to be right. 

He made his way back to where he'd left his braces, stooping to pick up Vin's bandana on his way. He held the two articles up, waited for Vin to give his assent; it was all pretense, of course, for Ezra would do as he wished. Still, he'd rather Vin not rouse the whole hotel with his fighting. 

Another long moment. Another trembling nod. 

Ezra hummed quietly to himself as he tied Vin's feet to the brass bedstead – not too tight, of course. Just enough to keep them out of the way – enough to spread Vin out before him, display everything his money had bought him. He could feel the lean muscles in Vin's legs trembling at his touch, hear each rasping breath – the sound, no doubt, of Vin fighting his innate urge to strike back, to avoid being tied down and captured. The knowledge of Vin's internal fight only added to Ezra's enjoyment, to the visceral pleasure he received from taming this savage man. 

He stood back when he was done and gazed down at his work. Vin lay before him utterly exposed, utterly helpless. He was breathing in a strange syncopation – not in a manner Ezra would call rapid, but faster than perhaps was natural for him – and each breath made the tattoo on his chest writhe like a prairie fire. He stared at Ezra with hooded eyes – just a glittering flash of iris and pupil barely visible through the fine curtain of his lashes – and Ezra knew without a doubt that, if he wanted, he could make Vin utterly his. As with a wild dog howling on the edges of a fire, he knew he could bring Vin to the leash with due care, and, oh, how he wanted to utterly possess this man.

"No pain," Ezra said, in a gentle voice, a promise and conveyance of trust. 

He started slow, just with his hands, just touching at first, feeling each hard muscle, each lean curve. He traced the path of a scar across Vin's belly with the tip of his finger, fascinated by the texture of the slightly raised skin, by the implications of its existence. It was so much easier to remember violence when it left an indelible mark; easier to remember, too, that for all that Vin was a man there was something feral and wild to him, a ferocity borne out in the sheer number of scars. 

More scars – some raised, some smooth, some wide and jagged, others small and neat – then more unscored skin, skin smoother than he'd thought it would be. Vin was altogether much smoother than he'd expected. Cleaner too, and not just his skin; he smelled fresh, smelled of sage and the desert wind. 

Another scar, this one running along the bottom of the tattoo, the final curve in the spiral, and here Ezra decided to indulge another sense, to lean down and run his tongue across the splash of brilliant red. Underneath him, Vin shuddered and made a small noise – surprise, perhaps, or maybe pleasure.

One last lingering swipe of his tongue, and then Ezra traced the whorls of red and yellow up Vin's chest to his nipples; small, brown things. He teased one with the tip of his finger, then pinched it, gently – he'd promised no pain, but surely his promise could be broken for this, for the burst of sharp, unexpected feeling followed so quickly behind by pleasure. 

The entire bed rattled as Vin jerked his hips up in surprise and need. 

Ezra smiled against Vin's skin, pinched Vin's nipple one more time, then continued upwards in his exploration. Over the graceful sweep of collarbone, up to the strong, corded muscles of Vin's neck, and he paused here. The bruises left by Vin's earlier john were not so startling a contrast against this sun darkened skin as the tattoos were against the rest of Vin's pale form, but they still stood out, a mark of violence that was oddly ugly on a body already so scarred. Ezra considered them for a moment, and in considering felt an urge to feel what the big man had felt, to dominate this wild thing beneath him not with soft touches and gentle pressure and the promise of money but with brute force. He laid his hand across Vin's throat – still gentle, still with the promise of "no pain" – lining his fingers up as nearly as he could with the livid marks. 

Again the bed rattled as Vin jerked – in fear this time, his half-closed eyes flying open and all his earlier struggling renewed. He writhed against his bonds in a frenzy, tugging, arching, twisting, and Ezra fell to the ground in an undignified heap in his haste to get out of the way. 

"No!" Vin said again, once his struggles had abated. His protest was louder this time, more forceful, more demanding, and Ezra knew that if he offered Vin the chance to leave now he would take it and run and be damned to the fifteen dollars he'd be leaving behind. 

"Easy," Ezra said, as gently as he could, though his voice was rough with his own need, his own shock at so violent a reaction. He sat down on the bed and held his hands up, well clear of Vin's body. "No pain, remember?"

"Don't put nothin' on my throat," Vin said, panic still lurking in his eyes, in the rigidity of his body, in the flat line of his mouth.

"All right," Ezra said. He kept his hands at his sides – though he desperately wanted to keep touching Vin, to continue his slow exploration of the different textures of Vin's body – and contemplated Vin's face as he waited for the younger man's panic to subside. He wondered, idly, whether he ought to kiss the man. Kissing was part of the game of romance, after all, and could be a fulfilling pleasure in its own right. But would Vin let him? And more importantly, did he really want to kiss this man? There was nothing particularly sensual about Vin's lips, for they were as spare as the rest of him. And yet there was something appealing to the thought, to the idea of partaking of this additional act of intimacy. After all, they were as intimate as two men might be, while strangers still. 

On the other hand, the big man had not limited his violence just to Vin's neck.

As he pondered he let one hand languidly stroke down the length of Vin's side, a slow, gentle glide of pressure, the same stroke he used on his horse when the beast was feeling particularly restive. It worked as well here as it did in the stable, for he gradually felt Vin relax beneath his hand, felt the muscles lose some of their taut and trembling strain. Vin's eyes, too, changed as his body eased back into the pleasure of touch, growing soft and dark and distant. Ezra watched the change with an intensity that surprised him – it was important for his own pleasure that Vin be relaxed, yes, but he found he wanted to please Vin too. 

No kissing then – at least, not on the mouth. But that left other places to be tasted, other flesh to press his lips to. He waited until Vin's eyes were hooded once more, until his body sagged against his bonds, then pressed his mouth to Vin's chest once more. He felt, more than heard, Vin's sharp inhalation – felt, too, a sudden renewal of the trembling of his body; a different type of trembling this time, though, of that he was certain. Again he smiled against Vin's skin; again he traced the pattern of ink across and down Vin's chest. He didn't stop when the ink did this time, but continued down the rest of Vin's body to his cock. 

It was a nice cock as cocks went. Not the largest Ezra had seen, but plump, with a pleasing curve and heft. It felt comfortable in Ezra's mouth, and he took his time to enjoy the pleasant ache that came with stretching his jaw wide enough to accommodate Vin's prick, the taste and texture. To enjoy, too, the musky scent of Vin's arousal and the ever-growing ache of his own need.

He took his time with this, as he had with tracing the history of Vin's life as told by his scars; as he'd taken his time with undressing, too, slowing ever further with each tiny jerk of Vin's hips, each mewling whimper of his need, each rattling jerk of the brass bedstead. There was an art to taking a man in hand, and Ezra knew he had few equals in this particular skill. He teased Vin past the point of grudging need; past incoherent pleas; right to the edge where pleasure became pain; then stopped and pulled away. Again and again he brought Vin right to the edge; again and again he denied him release; again and again and again until he'd wrung all resistance out of Vin, reduced him to a twisting, urgent wreck, desperate and willing to do anything in his desperation. 

"Please," Vin said, as Ezra pulled off away from him once more; his hands were making desperate clutching gestures and the sheets beneath him were damp with sweat. "Oh god, please." 

"Anything I want," Ezra said, and he bent forward once more, grasping Vin's cock with his hand. He tugged, gently, and Vin arched up into motion. Ezra slipped his other hand beneath Vin's balls and stroked the soft, velvet skin of Vin's most private part. He heard Vin's slightly shocked gasp at the touch, felt the muscles contract and tighten, then ease as Vin forced himself to relax. 

"Anything I want," Ezra said again, before removing his hand. "But not this." 

He stood up and stepped away from the bed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Vin's eyes fly open, wide and round – shocked and possibly a little ashamed. Ezra smiled to himself at the sight, then began to untie Vin's bonds. First his feet, then his hands, and even when he was free, even after Ezra had moved across the room to hang his braces up in their proper place, Vin lay upon the bed as though he were still bound. 

Ezra turned, unsurprised to see Vin's eyes upon him, steady and full of need.

"Kneel," Ezra said and he was pleased with the clumsy haste with which Vin moved to obey to cross the room and drop to his knees before him. Ezra ran one hand down the side of Vin's head, then gently urged Vin's head forward until his mouth was on Ezra's cock. Vin was no great hand at this – too straightforward in Ezra's opinion, with no consideration for the subtly of pleasure – but he was skilled enough that Ezra found himself involuntarily thrusting into the warmth of Vin's mouth. He grabbed Vin's shoulders to steady himself, felt one of Vin's hands come up to grasp his hip, felt the jerking-counterpoint of Vin's body as he used his other hand to bring himself off. 

Ezra closed his eyes and surrendered himself to his base need, surrendered himself to the grunting, thrusting urgency of his lust. His climax – already so long denied – was not long in coming, and as he gave the last, involuntary jerks of his hips he heard Vin grunt his way through his own release. For a long moment Ezra let himself just breathe, slow and easy, until his heart was no longer racing and his knees no longer felt like they'd give way. He took one last, long breath, then released Vin's shoulders and stepped away. He was utterly sated – and more content than he had been in a long time. Well, almost utterly sated. His lust was eased, and yet he still desired…something from Vin. Though what it could be besides the pleasure of having another's warmth beside him while he slept, Ezra couldn't say.

"The money's in my jacket," he said, languidly waving on hand toward the garment as he walked over to the bed. "You may take it and leave, or spend what remains of the night with me."

He slid into the bed and turned down the lamp, let the sudden dimness hide the tension creeping into his shoulders. He was confident Vin would stay the night – confident, but not certain and though he was loath to admit it, even to himself, he would be disappointed if Vin left now. He closed his eyes and turned his back on the door; either Vin would stay or he wouldn't and Ezra knew he'd gain nothing from watching Vin make this decision. 

When the soft footsteps moved towards the bed Ezra grinned. 

"Paid me fer the night," Vin said, soft and slightly hesitant as he slid into bed behind Ezra; as soft and hesitant as the long arm that came up to rest across Ezra's waist. 

"Indeed," Ezra said as he blew out the lamp, "I did."


End file.
